My blood saves the coffee for later, so I go to sleep. This is the dream of the stale volcano: holes in the walls, rocks in the shoes. The citizens know their city will be melted, emulsified in the glow of liquid ash, and after knowing it a time continue talking normally from their booths, over the white ears of the napkin dispensers.
At the school I ask the students do you know what disaffection means? I spell it out. And their blinking is the opposite of frogs trilling, for why make anything is a reasonable question when even your mightiest crafts hang little in the vertical drear of the doom-cone, the hurt mountain.
With people, it seems, there can be both food and starvation, ready empty bodies and abstemious mouths. The trees of our breathing and the trees of our hands lost in the knot of the root-balls, thrusting on clay. But then a knuckle will sprout on a forehead, out of sheer resourcefulness because some part of us still belongs in the reeds where the song reproduces in the face of almost anything, until dearth, or talk takes the water from our throats—
There are no strikes in nature, no pickets over which the shore refuses to transact. The sky shakes loose a few gulls like white hangnails and it brings to mind a kind of matrimony, a kind of humble speaking on the beach. So I wake instructed, and continue burning. The bed is full of sand, the soft ordeal of the flesh, loose clump of carbon fragility in my moment inexplicably bold, with death kept off, and the scrim held taut.